


drown inside me

by oceansinmychest



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Sex in Closed Spaces, Sex in a Confessional, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: This is not the standard procedure for confession.





	drown inside me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScarletteStar1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/gifts).



> I did promise that I would get this to you before my vacation. :P Enjoy this treat, my friend. Wishing you much success and happiness.

 

Reconciliation exists in a cramped, tight wooden coffin. All venial sins may be forgiven here. Carved from mahogany, the Confessional lives within her beloved Church. Gilded gold and velvet, red curtains assure that donations have not gone to waste. A cherub’s sightless eyes stare ahead. Dear Miss Ives is a woman capable of reciting the “Act of Contrition” on demand. She kneels so often that she learns to ignore the pain.

Sir Malcolm arrives at night with his broken crown. They’re in the cathedral again promising a nighttime maze-like affair. His coat-tails slither over the bench. He takes the nameless priest’s place. The screen between them maintains some semblance of anonymity. He sits on the other side, masked by her faith.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was one day ago."

To humor her or perhaps encourage her as a father would, he reads a passage from scripture. He notices how she stalls. He doesn’t need to see her to hold her. Of this, Malcolm convinces himself.

“I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life,” she drones on, steadfast.

Vanessa seeks to be absolved, haunted by the demons of her past, and chased by a marauder with an explorer’s title. She pleads for _penance_. A black, magic woman speaks to her moments of terrible insanity, but her lust – her supposed ‘hysteria’ as the physicians call it – and guilt which worms its way up her curved spine.

Her pale hands clasp together, fingers meticulously interwoven. Her eyes rattle beneath their lids. So, her grip falters and shakes once she recites what is familiar to her.

“O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because of Thy punishments, but most of all because they offend—”

If only she could bathe her desecrated soul in holy water. She sounds genuinely remorseful. That pains him.

“You needn’t finish,” the disembodied voice counters.

Interrupted by the clearing of a throat, Malcolm turns to her, his silhouette painted in a cross-hatch fashion. The air is stifling and hot. She hears him. O, how she hears him. She wishes she hadn’t.

No priest offers penitence. Her rosary beats against his chest. The ruby beads glisten black the way blood spoils.

A long pause follows. Vanessa sighs.

"You _are_ a proper fool,” she insults him.

Neither a ‘Hail Mary’ nor an ‘Our Father’ is uttered. Penitence seems neglected. She’s always possessed a fighting spirit. Beneath the bristles of his beard, he smiles though it’s strained.

Cruel wanting consumes them. Their wanton ways catch up with them. Miss Ives makes the first move. From kneeling to standing, she rises. In condemned isolation, the box rivals a coffin inviting depravity. They clamber into one sweltering section without the guilt of the human race to chase after them. She slides the chamber door shut.

“Hush, Changeling,” he commands, his sonorous voice unable to quell her fury.

Lenora thrives in pale moonlight. Lithe legs move swiftly. She claims his lap as her own. Sullenly, he shifts beneath her. Calloused fingertips fly to her waist, acting on instinct. His ice blue stare burns a hole in her chest. It’s another case of Samson and Delilah.

Forsaking all others, Vanessa hugs his skeleton to hers. His chest presses against hers. No dance of the seven veils was needed to lure old Herodas in. Sweetness is found in bitterness. He cups her mouth with an open palm. She bites his hand. Leaves an indent with her razorblade teeth. Wise in her hunger, she knows none the better.

“You’ve damned me,” he groans from this revelation.

In a frenzy, his mouth masks hers. Rough meets soft meets rough. She tastes his skin between her teeth. Each kiss deepens, tongue in cheek. With rushed movements, quiet whimpers, and silent gasps, old wood splinters and creaks from the exertion of their labor. They waste no time in foreplay.

She doesn’t act like a woman possessed. Or maybe she does.

In love with her nymph swiftness, he fancies his feast. Her breasts beg to be touched. Firmly squeezing through the restriction of her dress, he obliges. The skirts swish and hiss, angry from this combative experience. Past the barrier, she welcomes him inside. How he grunts and howls when he ruts, a mangy wolf past his prime.

Vanessa blossoms like a beautifully dark flower of evil. Penitence concerns him not. A luminous pale rider takes what’s rightfully hers. It’s not that he drives himself inside, but she beats him to it, impaling herself onto his rigidness. She tightens around him: warm, wet, and willing.

With every thrust, he begs forgiveness. With every cant of her hips, she grants forgiveness.

Heads will roll and so his does. He presses against her collarbone and he swears that he hears that telltale heart thumping dully. Perhaps it’s his own. Thickly, Malcolm swallows, placing a blessed kiss to her pale jawline.

Her pale hand finds his silver Caesar's gut. By the root, she pulls.

To defile the sanctity of a church is a punishable offense. Yet, Percival rides on.

It hurts to love him, but she still loves him.

It hurts to love her, but she still loves her.

She wonders what card would be pinned to his chest: The Emperor, The Hanged Man, The Fool. He must be The Emperor in the way he takes her, grinds his hips upward to drive in deeper. He must be The Hanged Man for giving up on the daughter he lost, replaced by this neophyte which causes him to moan for more. He must be The Fool for this reckless way he loves her.

Lost to the dance, she rocks and she rolls, a stone in this vast sea. There is no time to focus on holy pretenses. Now, she wins; she holds the man she coveted captive.

Their shadows take on the form of twisted puppets projected against the dim, dark wall. Vanessa blesses her ruin, her favorite ghost, by pressing two fingers to his forehead. Idly, she traces the bridge of his nose.

And with a sigh, she comes undone.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist throwing in a T.S. Eliot reference (The Wasteland, in particular).


End file.
